


Forth They Went Together

by thetimemoves (WriteOut)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Awkward Conversations, Christmas, Commitment, Confessions, Developing Relationship, Family, M/M, POV John Watson, Parentlock (implied), Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-08-28 16:19:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16726761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteOut/pseuds/thetimemoves
Summary: John and Sherlock reminisce about Christmases past, plan Christmas present, and commit to Christmases future.





	Forth They Went Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dryad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/gifts).



> A very Happy Holmestice to Dryad!
> 
> I am most grateful to my fantastic beta Splix, as always, and to the internet, which gave me a lot of information about the British rail system that I promptly twisted to suit my own needs. I also took some liberties with the timeline (greatly assisted by this fantastic [graph](http://obotligtnyfiken.se/sherlock-order-of-events/)). Hooray for artistic license!

**********

Page and monarch, forth they went, forth they went together;

Through the rude wind's wild lament and the bitter weather.

 _Good King Wenceslas_ , John Mason Neal (1853)

**********

“Christ, it’s cold.” John looked out at the swirling snow and pulled his coat tighter around himself. The snow was falling so heavily, he couldn’t see past the thick hedgerows just outside the stalled train. He shivered, hard. The train was dark and bitterly cold. While there was some natural light despite the storm, most was from the emergency signs at each end of the carriage and it wasn’t much. The heat went out at the same time as the main lights, making the situation even more miserable. What he wouldn’t give for a roaring fire at Baker Street right about now. He’d settle for a thick blanket and steaming mug of tea, though. Or really, a large tumbler of Scotch.   

The train had been stopped for about three hours in the middle of a barren stretch of valley. John thought they were only an hour or so from London, but right now London—and a warm fire at Baker Street—felt worlds away. Only a light snow had been forecast, so the sudden blizzard that darkened the skies and wreaked havoc on the rails was completely unexpected. Iced over points on the tracks and mechanical failure of some sort, Sherlock had surmised, since the lights and heat had dimmed as the train came to a shuddering, squealing stop. The conductor had confirmed this when he came through the carriage to give the passengers an update.

Sherlock was slouched on the seat across from him, sulking. He too was wrapped up in his greatcoat. He even had his scarf wound closely around his neck, although he didn’t look any warmer than John. His gloved hands were shoved into his pockets and his feet tangled a bit with John’s under the table between them. Their carriage was mostly empty, so they had the four seats to themselves. It was a small consolation. If they were going to be trapped on a train, at least they weren’t going to be subjected too closely to other people. Small mercies, thought John. A bored and disgruntled Sherlock was going to be enough to deal with, let alone a carriage full of frustrated strangers.

Not to mention, Sherlock was also currently pissed off at him for getting them on the train in the first place. The case that had taken them to Leeds for the day had ended up a bust. A high-ranking government official working for Mycroft had gone missing under circumstances even Sherlock concurred were suspicious and he shared his brother’s concerns about possible foul play at work. Sherlock agreed to investigate as a favor to Mycroft, something he’d tried to deny, but which John knew was true. That Sherlock was intrigued enough to take the case without complaint surprised John (and, he suspected, Mycroft). He asked John to come with, wanting not only John’s quickness with a gun and his composure in the face of potential danger, but also (and mostly, John thought) his company. John was more than happy to come along. Cases had been thin on the ground that fall, at least ones that required John’s assistance, and he was feeling itchy for some action. Rosie was in the hands of a reliable—and thoroughly vetted—childminder, putting both John and Sherlock at ease. She was their priority these days. Sherlock might be able to dash off without a moment’s notice, but John no longer could. With Rosie’s care and safety ensured, John felt comfortable assisting Sherlock on cases that required more than a couple of hours of legwork.

In the end, there had been no need for guns or fists or any fast-talking out of dire situations. There hadn’t even been any running. Contrary to initial evidence, no one had been threatened, blackmailed, or kidnapped. Mycroft’s high-ranking—and very married—official had fallen in love with her also-married secretary and the pair decided on a whim to run off together. They were just two people who wanted to throw off the scent and have some time to themselves before reality intruded. Sherlock and John tracked the lovers down to a seedy flat within an hour of arriving in Leeds. The ensuing scene was not pleasant. Sherlock was livid at being manipulated and made his displeasure known not only to the couple, but also to John and everyone else within earshot. He wanted to call Mycroft and demand a car back to London as recompense, but John said they were perfectly capable of catching a train and getting themselves back without outside interference. Already in a snit, Sherlock stopped talking to him completely as soon as the lights flickered off and the heat died out.

John took advantage of Sherlock’s sulk to surreptitiously watch his friend. He always had an eye on Sherlock—it was hard not to—but found himself staring more than usual lately. Sherlock was now hunched over, scowling and poking at his dead phone in vain. Despite Sherlock’s clear unhappiness and rather unattractive expression, John felt a rush of fondness run through him. He loved Sherlock, right down to his multiple chins and wrecked curls. Being back on a case, even one that turned out to a dud, felt good. It felt right. He needed this. _They_ needed this. Settling back into something resembling a routine had taken much time and great care and they were finally reaping the rewards. Rebuilding Baker Street together was the fresh start they needed. It was cathartic, emotional, _hard_ work. So hard. At the time of the explosion, John hadn’t lived at Baker Street in over two years but he still considered it his home. Never stopped, really. To see it in pieces had hurt almost more than he could bear, particularly after the dark revelations at Sherrinford. Putting it back to rights, working with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson to make sure the renovations worked for _all_ of them, especially Rosie, was all that John had hoped for and far more than he had ever expected. Reestablishing himself back in Sherlock’s home—their home—and Sherlock’s life on a daily business was an ongoing process, but John felt they were finally hitting their stride. Rosie was proving to be an excellent buffer when tempers flared or feelings were hurt, which happened far less these days. John was grateful in more ways than he could count.   

“How much longer you think we’ll be stuck here?” John wriggled a bit in his seat, trying to stir up some warmth in his blood. He didn’t expect Sherlock to answer, loath as the man was to indulge in mindless small talk, but he was getting tired of the silent treatment. Sherlock wasn’t the only one who was bored. It was too dark to properly read, too cold to nap, too quiet to think, and his own phone died 45 minutes ago.

Sherlock grunted and shifted a bit himself.

A grunt. Well, better than nothing. John turned back to the window and quirked a smile. The grumpy git.

“I saw that,” Sherlock muttered. He put his phone down on the table and glared at it for a moment before pushing it aside.

“You saw nothing.” John poked Sherlock in the calf with his foot and kept looking out the window. “You talking to me now?”

Sherlock pushed himself up and stuck his gloved hands in his armpits. “I’m cold.”

“I know, I’m cold too.”

“Funny that. We could be tucked away at home now, warm and cozy, if only you’d let me call Mycroft for a car.”

John ignored the dig. “Come on, Sherlock. We’re stuck and apparently not going anywhere any time soon. Distract me from freezing my arse off, will you? Tell me something I don’t know.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Berk. You know what I mean.”

Sherlock just looked at him.

John sighed, the sound magnified in the silence. He stuck his leg further between Sherlock’s and pressed against him. Sherlock was warm, despite his complaints, and John was so cold. “Spill. Christmas is coming up. Tell me about the best Christmas present you ever got.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but finally gave in to John’s attempt to engage. He blew on his hands and rubbed them together, his leather gloves squeaking softly. He was still for a moment and then blew out a breath. “The best Christmas present I ever received was from Mycroft. I was seven and still in his thrall.” Another eye roll. “He gave me my first microscope and an advanced chemical kit to go with it. I thought he hung the moon.”

“He knew you well.”

“He spent a lot of time showing me how to use everything. I think he had almost as much fun with it as I did. He was always patient, even when I wouldn’t stop with the questions. I don’t remember a time when we got along better. Well, other than now perhaps.” His cheeks pinked a bit at the confession.

John leaned forward and just looked at Sherlock, a soft smile on his lips. He watched Sherlock fidget under his gaze and fought the urge to reach out to him. He knew the brothers loved each other—events over the past few years forever cemented that knowledge—but it was still slightly unnerving to hear Sherlock do anything other than snipe when it came to Mycroft.

“Your turn,” Sherlock muttered, face still slightly flushed.

John cleared his throat. He had planned to tell a funny little tale about the year he and Harry got their first bikes, which resulted in matching broken arms. Sherlock’s candidness made him reconsider.

“I don’t have a lot of good Christmas memories, really. Mum would drink more around the holidays, which would set our dad off. Harry and I never knew who was going to blow up first. We just kept our heads down and hoped the tree would still be standing on Christmas morning. There were always presents, but it never felt… I don’t know, special. Not like with Mycroft and the microscope. Does that make sense?”

Sherlock nodded. His gaze was intense.

“When Harry and I were 10, Mum and Dad sent us down to Lyme Regis to spend Christmas week with Mum’s parents. Our parents had been fighting a lot more than usual and I think even they knew that Harry and I needed to get away. At least, that’s what I tell myself. They probably just wanted us out of their hair for a few days.” John bit his lip and looked out at the swirling snow. This was turning out to be harder than he thought.

Sherlock seemed to sense his discomfort. He reached out and touched his fingers lightly to John’s, which were resting on the table. He gave John’s leg—still between Sherlock’s—a quick squeeze with his own.

John’s stomach did a slow roll at the contact. He and Sherlock had been pushing at their physical boundaries for a long time, but those had almost completely vanished after Sherrinford and Eurus. John put that on his list of Things He Really Ought to Think About, which kept growing longer these days when it came to Sherlock.  

“Did you see them often?”

Startled out of his reverie, John shook his head. Right, Christmas. He was meant to be talking about Christmas.

“Rarely, as my parents never thought it was important. It cost money they’d rather spend on themselves. They put us on the train to Axminster, where our grandparents picked us up. It was our first train trip without Mum and Dad. I remember getting tea in actual china cups from the dining car and feeling like a grown up.” John grinned at the memory of Harry sticking her pinky out and talking in a poncy accent.  

“It was a real treat to have so many days with Nan and Grandad. They spoiled us rotten that week, I remember. They didn’t have a lot of money, but Harry and I didn’t care. Not like we had a lot at home either. It was nice to have someone pay attention to us, yeah? No one was yelling or throwing things, either. We went on a fossil hunt down at the beach. I think I still have that rock somewhere. So, yeah. That was my favorite Christmas present, that week with my grandparents.”

“Lyme Regis though, John. Ugh. It’s in the middle of nowhere.” Sherlock’s own grin belied his words.

John snorted, happy for the bit of levity. He nudged Sherlock’s hand. “It felt like Disneyland to us, that’s for sure.”

“You’ve met my parents. You’ve seen how they are at Christmas.” Sherlock paused, no doubt remembering that day and how it had ended for all of them. He rallied and continued. “They’ve always gone overboard for the holidays. I think my mother has a compulsion to cover every surface in the house with decorations.”

“I thought it was lovely, actually.”

“I hated it when I was growing up, John. All the noise and fuss and parties… it was too much.”

“I never liked the parties my parents threw either. A bit different from yours, I’m sure. More about the drinks than the decorations.”

They fell silent for a while. Sherlock picked his phone back up and twirled it a few times. John picked at a fingernail and thought about microscopes and fossils hidden in rocks. His first Christmas with Sherlock. The last one without him.

“John.”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“You’re thinking about something. What are you thinking about?”

“Parties. I’m thinking about parties.”

“No. I know that look on your face. No, John.”

“We need a do-over.”

“No.”

“I think we should try throwing another party. It might be fun to celebrate our first Christmas back at Baker Street, you think? Have our friends over, maybe even Mycroft. Hush. It would be short notice, but I’m sure we can pull something together.”

“Ugh, parties. We just talked about this. We hate them, John.”

“We don’t, not really. Not if we do it our way.”

Sherlock sighed, resigned. “Fine. Only if you do all of the work.”

“ _We’ll_ do the work, you mean. Or else I’ll break out Mrs Hudson’s antlers and make you wear them this time.”

“That won’t be happening. Little Watson might be a suitable candidate, however.”

“Rosie would look adorable in antlers, I agree.” John smiled, thinking of his little girl decked out in fuzzy antlers and jingle bells and the brightest, gaudiest holiday dress he could find.

“I think we’re both forgetting the Harrod’s incident. My ears are still ringing.”

John barked out a laugh. Despite his best efforts to get hats or headgear of any kind on Rosie, she despised them and made her displeasure known to all and sundry. Just like Sherlock, now that he thought about it. “I think I deliberately forgot about that one, thanks. So, no antler headbands for the little monster. That just leaves you, then.”

“Again, not going to happen. But really, a party? That means people.” Sherlock scrunched up his face.  
  
“Yes, it means our friends. It even means Mycroft. No, don’t make that face, you don’t fool me. We’ll have our friends over and we’ll make it a lovely time for everyone. You know Mrs Hudson will be keen to show off her baking. You can play for us again too.”

“But John—“

“It’s going to be Rosie’s second Christmas, Sherlock. I know she won’t know what’s going on and is too young to remember any of it, but I want to start creating happy Christmases for her. I need to erase her first one. It was too soon after Mary was killed, and I was a wreck. If it wasn’t for Molly, I don’t think she would have gotten one present.” He winced, thinking of the reason why she didn’t get one from Sherlock. That damn letter. “I don’t want her to have the same kind of Christmases I had as a kid. She deserves only the happiest ones. I want a tree. I want lights. I want Christmas crackers and mince pies and I want us to have a party.”

Sherlock sat up some more and adjusted his scarf, which had fallen loose. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table, his hands lightly clasped. He looked like he was having an intense internal debate with himself. John wasn’t sure he wanted to hear whatever was about to come out of Sherlock’s mouth and braced himself.

“I don’t know. I was a bit of an arse at the last one we had, wasn’t I? Maybe we shouldn’t. Don’t want to risk insulting any girlfriends.” He stared at his hands and wouldn’t look at John.

“Where on earth is that coming from, Sherlock?”

Sherlock flushed red and mumbled something that sounded like ‘dunnoh’, but John couldn’t be sure. An embarrassed Sherlock was a rare sighting, one John wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

“No, really. Of all the things that happened that Christmas, that’s what’s stuck with you? Insulting my girlfriend? What about Irene?”

“You always bring her up. I wish you wouldn’t. It’s not what you think it is or what you think it should be.”  
  
“And what is that, hmm?” John’s right hand twitched. Fuck. No way Sherlock didn’t see that. He moved his hand down to his lap and clenched it in a fist.

“Not a romance, despite your best efforts to convince me otherwise. I remember telling you once, a very long time ago, that girlfriends aren’t my area. I don’t know how to make this any clearer. I am. Not. Interested. I do not want Irene Adler.”

“Okay, okay. Sherlock, okay. I get it. I’m sorry. I won’t bring her up again.”

“Thank you.”

“I still don’t get why you brought up girlfriends in the first place. Not sure what that has to do with anything.” 

“Well, they’re bound to make an appearance at some point. I was never very nice before, might not be very nice now.”

Ah, that. John bit his lip and tried not to smile. He might not be a consulting genius, but every once in a rare while he understood something before Sherlock.

“Don’t think that will be an issue, girlfriends.”

“No?”

“Think maybe I’m done with all of that.”

“You ‘think’ you’re done with all of that,” said Sherlock, flatly.

John rolled his eyes. Good lord. “When was the last time I had one come ‘round? Well before Mary. Seriously, Sherlock. I’m not looking. I’m so not even in the realm of looking.”

Sherlock scoffed. “That’s now. What about the future?”

“No, listen. I have my Rosie, I have my job, I have cases with you again. I have… I have you. That’s my plate full. No need for anything else.” Now it was John’s turn to blush.

“But Rosie needs—”

“Rosie has everything she needs, Sherlock. She has people in her life who love her very much and who will do anything to make sure she’s happy and healthy and taken care of.”

John suddenly put his hand up to his mouth, as if to shut himself up. How on earth did they go from planning a Christmas party to this? And on a train, of all places. Only them, he swore. They tended to bare their souls in public, didn’t they? The pool, the rooftop at Bart’s, the tarmac, Magnussen’s patio, John’s wedding…

“John?” Sherlock leaned even closer. His hands were shaking, just barely.

“When you rebuilt Baker Street, you made sure I was included in just about every way. I hadn’t lived in there in years, but you made sure I knew it was still my home, even if I never moved back in. You made sure there was room for Rosie, that it would be her home too. You’ve always cared, Sherlock, so much. I’ve just never been that good at seeing it, but I do now. And you know, in the end it was the easiest decision for me and Rosie to come back home.”

“What are you saying, John? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m trying to tell you, Sherlock. I’m still not good at this sort of thing.” John took a deep breath. He was really doing this, oh god. “I’m trying. In so many ways, I’m trying. I have a lot to make up for, I know. We’ve never really talked about this. Why haven’t we ever talked about this?”

“John—” Sherlock looked dismayed.

A few rows away, someone coughed, reminding John that he and Sherlock were not alone. He lowered his voice.

“No, Sherlock, no. You know I’m right. You know it. It’s not an excuse, it’s not, but I was in such a dark place after Mary’s death. You know that more than anyone. You and Rosie both.” He wiped his eyes and his voice hitched. “I was no good to you, to her, to myself… not to anyone, not for the longest time. And do you know, I’ve been back at Baker Street for almost a year and I’ve never properly told you sorry. And I am, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve any of it. What I did to you. The hurt I caused. You didn’t.”

In a flash, Sherlock was up and around the table. He hesitated for a moment and then sat down next to John. He pushed up the armrest between them and scooted as close to John as he could.

John soaked up the force of Sherlock’s full attention and felt on the verge of full-blown sobbing. Christ. Weren’t they just talking about Christmas presents?

“Thank you, John.”

Sherlock moved slowly, as not to spook John, and took his gloves off. He placed his hand on top of John’s fist, which was still clenched in his lap.

John sighed, feeling a bit more in control with Sherlock next to him. “I know my timing is a bit shite here. Not really a great place to have a long overdue and emotionally fraught conversation, is it? We never seem to do anything by halves, though, do we.”

“No, we really don’t.” Sherlock gripped John’s hand harder.

As much as John wanted to crawl under the table and pretend this conversation wasn’t happening, he was relieved at the same time. Finally, finally. He unclenched his fist and flexed his fingers. He turned his hand over and twined his fingers with Sherlock’s.

“What I’m saying is that I want to spend this Christmas with you and Rosie, party or no party. You told Mycroft I was family. You’re mine too, you know. I want to spend Christmas with my family. I want to spend all of my Christmases with my family.” John looked down at their clasped hands for a moment and then took another shaking breath. “Do you… how do you feel about that, Sherlock?”

“I’ve known what I’ve wanted for a long time now, John. I just didn’t think it was something I’d ever get.” Sherlock caressed the back of John’s hand with his thumb. His eyes were shining. 

The lights suddenly flickered on and the hum of the engine filled the air. The train lurched forward, to the cheers of the passengers in the carriage.

“Oh, thank god. I wasn’t sure how much more of this talk I could take. Too many feelings, John. And I'm still not wearing the antlers.” Sherlock winked. 

Winking, good lord. John felt something stirring deep in his belly. He pressed even closer and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, not up for scrutiny at that moment.

“Hiding or warming up?”

“Both.” John raised Sherlock’s hand and pressed his lips to it.  

“Still cold?” Sherlock put his arm around John and squeezed, just a bit. He lowered his head at the same time John lifted his.

John rubbed his icy nose against Sherlock’s.

“Not as such,” he replied, “but let’s find out.”


End file.
